


To Be Loved

by emmiemac



Series: The Cleganes in Winterfell [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1694399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmiemac/pseuds/emmiemac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Sandor must stop at a small inn for the night. Sandor is his usual gruff self but Sansa loves him anyway.</p><p>DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely based on characters from George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Loved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kallielef](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kallielef).



_“Do you want to be loved, Sansa? “_

_“Everyone wants to be loved.”_

_Cersei and Sansa_ ACOK

 

“Ow! Seven hells!”

Sandor cursed and slapped his hand to his forehead after having hit it on the top of the doorframe whilst entering the tiny room at the inn. He ducked lower now and walked to sit on the edge of the bed. Immediately Sansa was at his side.

“Are you hurt, my love? Shall I send down for a cool cloth, or another ale, mayhaps?”

She had put her hand on his shoulder and he felt the dampness in his woolen tunic that lingered unpleasantly despite warming himself by the hearth fire downstairs while they ate. He felt grumpy and tired and wretchedly miserable but when he looked up at her he saw the sweet concern in her eyes. When he did not reply immediately, she bit her lip and shook her head sorrowfully.

“I- I’m sorry, my love; but I thought it best we all stopped for the day-“ she began with a stammer.

“I’m fine,” he rasped curtly, “though another ale wouldn’t do no harm.”

Might be it wouldn’t help either but Sandor was willing to try anything at this point in their journey.

“I’ll get it now,” she whispered as she picked up her skirts and turned back to the door.

“What? Send a servant to get it. Bloody hells, girl: there are enough of them following us about,” he remarked peevishly. “All nattering and fussing and trying to be helpful and they just get in my bloody way; let them be of use for once in a buggering while.“

Sansa turned his face back to hers. “They are getting settled in their rooms; and some will needs sleep in the stables and in the common room. We are many; and this is such a small village. Had it not rained so very hard today-“

“You were right to call a halt for the day, little bird; elsewise we could have found ourselves camped in the mud further along the road. Very well,” he relented, “you may fetch and carry for me…my lady.” His mouth twitched a slight smile and Sansa responded with a gentle smile of her own before turning to leave. The wooden door shut behind her.

“Fuck,” he muttered as he put his head in his hands.

_Should’ve stayed on at the bloody Umbers, at least they had decent wines thanks to Lord Too-fat-to-sit-a-horse._

Still, he knew most if not all of the wine was gone by now, after three days of feasting following their first successful harvest after the long winter and the return of The Greatjon’s youngest son to Last Hearth from White Harbor. Every family in the North knew he had travelled to request the honour of the hand Lord Manderly’s granddaughter; the outspoken chit with the green hair was the only way Sandor could remember her or tell her apart from her sister. Lord Too-fat-to-sit-a-horse was allegedly as relieved as he was overjoyed that the girl had chosen an Umber. Since he had once betrothed her to a Frey, though without any intention of honouring his word; he had nevertheless promised the stubborn girl that she could marry a man of her own choosing and he would dower her with lands and a tower house in the North. He was glad his largesse was going to another worthy Northman and not some Southron knight or a pimply boy from a minor house.

Sandor and Sansa had travelled further north for the feast and stayed for the celebration, leaving the young Lord Stark, Rickon, with the Blackfish and their small children at Winterfell in the care of their nurse and the wildling woman, Osha. Osha had been devoted to RIckon and Bran during the wars, even hiding on Skaagos with Rickon to protect him. She had become equally devoted to Sansa when Sandor brought her back to Winterfell, and Sansa returned her loyalty fiercely. She would not have left her children at all had Osha not been there to protect and care for them. So in truth, and despite the piss-poor travelling weather, there was no question of their staying on at Last Hearth. Sansa wanted to return to her children, as did Sandor. He decided to be grateful it had at least not snowed, as Sansa had warned him it sometimes did in summer. Still, moving at such a slow pace along the Northern roads with countless guards and servants taxed his already limited patience and reminded him of his own days in service: his days as the Hound.

“No bloody wonder I was such a fearsome, hated shit,” he muttered.

The door to the room opened again and Sansa returned holding a horn of ale and basin of cold water and with a towel draped over her arm.

“Here, drink; not too fast,” she told him softly. Sandor took a healthy swallow of ale anyway; then he watched Sansa set the basin on a shelf and soak the towel in the water. Her hair was messy from riding with her hood up and her grey gown was damp to the knees and spotted with mud spattered from horses’ hooves. She was likely tired as well, he surmised, and missed their children and was weary of travelling so far and so soon after WInterfell had held its own harvest feats. But Last hearth lay further north and so had a later harvest. Sansa was determined to be an effective Warden, even if it meant travelling when she may not want to and putting up with her fawning, drunken bannermen on top of her lord husband’s sour moods. These were her duties as acting Warden of the North and she performed them all splendidly, he thought. Sandor had always been impressed with her devotion and worried sometimes that she worked too hard; though she never complained. He knew he should do more to help her but he hated the empty pleasantries of noble life; some days he hated being a bloody lord, and knew that despite his years in the North and his loyalty to the Starks that some men still saw him as the Hound…unlike the little bird.  He felt tender towards her now and contrite for his surly behavior.

After wringing out the towel, Sansa turned to him and stopped short.

“Why do you look at me like that, Sandor?” she asked curiously when she saw him staring. “Let me help you and don’t fuss.“

“You’re beautiful,” he rasped quietly.

Sansa blinked in surprise and then cast her eyes down modestly.

“You must have hit your head very hard to start speaking nonsense like a knight from a song,” she teased him gently. 

Sandor’s brow furrowed in sudden impatience. _I’m trying to be fucking nice,_ he wanted to shout; but before he could answer there was a knock at their door.

“Your bath is ready, m’lady,” called Sansa’s maid.

“Thank you,” she called through the door. “I won’t be long,” Sansa murmured to Sandor.  

“Take as long as it please you, little bird; you needs get warm again after riding in that pissing cold rain.” He still wanted to make up for being an ass.

“Very well, my lord,” she answered sweetly as her maid opened the door for her. Sansa always used his title before his men or the servants, all except the wildling woman Osha. She knew cared less for titles than even Sandor though the wildling never failed to address him as _m’lord_ just as she addressed Sansa as _m’lady_. There were other wildings in service and in the winter town and Osha knew that as the longest serving wildling the others would look to her for example. She also knew they were not welcome by all the Northerners and so wanted no trouble for her little lord or his family.

Once Sansa had left the room, Sandor drank down the ale, tilting his head back and taking long gulps. Then he picked up the cloth she had left with him. He winced as he dabbed at his sore and probably swollen forehead and muttered another foul curse.

“Seven buggering miserable hells.”

Sandor pulled off his boots and then stood carefully, mindful of the low ceiling. He stripped himself of his tunic, shirt and breeches and pushed the towel once again into the basin of water. He washed himself quickly since the dampness of the steady rainfall made the room chilly but he didn’t want to stink next to his freshly bathed little bird. He started washing behind his neck and worked his way down his tall, muscled body, mindful of his many scars, all the way to his large feet. Once he had finished, he pulled back the furs and settled himself on his back on the far side of the bed.

As soon as he lay down, he raised his head from the bolster and looked down the length of the bed to see his freshly washed feet sticking out over the edge.

“Bloody perfect,” he grumbled. Beds in inns and castles were rarely long enough for his height.

In time, his eyelids grew heavy and he dozed fitfully. In his dreams, he wandered the dark halls of an unknown castle. The halls and rooms were all empty and Sandor was alone. It made him sad and angry. Then he heard a sweet, soft humming floating through the air until he heard a clear voice sing: _Gentle Mother, font of mercy…_

He woke with a start.

“Sandor? Are you alright?”

He looked over and saw Sansa sitting on the side of the bed in the glow of a single candle. She was braiding her long, thick auburn hair loosely over her shoulder. She had probably been humming to herself before he woke.

“Just…just a dream,” he rasped dismissively though he felt somewhat shaken, “a dream of you.” He realized somehow that even in his worst moments, she was there with him. Even as he realized it, he looked down to see that she brought up his now dry cloak and had spread it out over the end of the bed, covering his feet.

Sansa smiled, gently and sadly. “Why would you dream of me when I am here beside you, Sandor? Please do not you tell me you worry about my safety anymore; you have kept me, and our children and everyone at Winterfell safe for all these years. I, and all of them, love you for it.”

“I’m loved, am I?” he rasped jeeringly,“with my gruff, sour moods, and rough tongue and rude manners?”

Sansa finished tying the cord around her hair and turned to look at him directly; her deep blue eyes held his levelly.

“Yes, you are, Sandor. I love you,” she told him.

His mouth twitched. “You could have done far better than me, girl,” he reminded her.

“You will persist in believing that, Sandor; but _I_ never will. I keep hoping that one day you will have the same faith and trust in yourself that I have found in you.”

Sandor pulled the furs back for her, a conciliatory gesture. “Come here,” he inclined his head.

Sansa smiled and curled up with him as he put his arms around her. He pushed his face into her hair and neck and sniffed appreciatively.

“There now: you’re all warm and sweet-smelling,” he murmured. “Now I’ll have pleasant dreams with you next to me, little bird.”

She smiled but only faintly. “What is it?” he rasped. “Is something troubling you?”

Sansa shook her head weakly. “No, it’s nothing,” she barely whispered, “only…may I confess to you, Sandor, that I am possibly the only Northerner _not_ happy with this betrothal?”

Sandor drew his heavy brows together. “Why in buggering hells not? No one wants to see your Northern nobles marry South after all that’s happened; most would sooner marry wildings instead so why does our acting Warden of the North disapprove. Is it the girl you dislike; you’ve never spoken a word against the Umbers.”

“I don’t dislike her at all, Sandor; I wish her very well, but…well, I had hoped that mayhaps Arya would marry Lord Umber’s youngest, and come North again where she belongs,” she finished sadly. “Last Hearth would have suited her, I think. Now there is hardly a worthy young man left to marry in the North and I cannot see her agreeing to an old widower-“

“The she-wolf would kill him on their first night abed; though at least the old bugger’d die happy,” he jeered.

“Stop that, Sandor,” she scolded mildly though she could not keep the smile from the corners of her lips. Arya had grown beautiful, she thought, much like they said her aunt Lyanna had been beautiful: wild and dark, a winter rose.

He sighed, and held her tighter. “I know you want your sister back, little bird; but you may as well accept that as a hostage to the dragon queen’s court, she will likely be made to marry a man of the queen’s or the council’s choosing…might be she’s made to marry young Aegon himself.”

“Her nephew? But Sandor,” she protested, “he is at present her only heir…that would make Arya queen of the Seven Kingdoms someday!”

“Aye, and bind the North loyally to the crown for generations to come. Think, little bird: you understand this court and alliance nonsense better than I ever will; and even I buggering figured it out so don’t try to tell you that you haven’t.”

Sansa hesitated. “I- I didn’t want to think about it; and Danearys may still marry-“

“When? When she’s old and dried up? She never gave that Dothraki nor her other husband heirs, did she? And she’s said to keep a paramour, some fucking nonce-y Tyrosh with swishy clothes and a ridiculous dyed beard-“

“Hush. You’re dreadful sometimes,” she could not help herself from laughing softly even as she rebuked him.

Sandor grew solemn. “You don’t want your little sister to be queen then.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I could not wish that on anyone I cared about, Sandor; least of all my own sister. It would mean she would have to stay in King’s Landing forever,” she murmured quietly.

“I know, but think about what she told you: she thought she’d be safer in the capitol and that those faceless buggers wouldn’t come looking for her in Winterfell. I’m sorry you miss her, little bird; but I’ve enough work keeping you all safe without assassins lurking about. And they’d not be like to go after her if she were queen; might be it’s her safest bet too.”

“If she were queen, she would have far more enemies than the Faceless men, Sandor. Have you forgotten what liars and conspirators those people were? Do you imagine things have changed so much just because the current queen has dragons? _Fire and Blood_ are the Targaryen words; if I had been queen-“ she stopped short, knowing full well her hopes to make the people love her would not have saved her if she had needed it.

Sandor put his hand under her chin and turned her face to his. “If you had been queen then you would have made a splendid queen, girl: better and kinder and more beautiful than any of them that wanted it.”

Sansa closed her eyes tightly now and struggled to hold back tears.

“You think I’m jealous; but would you wish such a fate on me, Sandor?” she whispered tightly. She had once dreamed of being queen, and they both knew too well how that dream had swiftly become a horrible nightmare for her; and for him. He had tried to temper Joffreys cruelty but the young king had not listened.

“No,” he rasped, “just saying what’s true. You’re good and gentle and worthy of being a queen; I’ve seen it plain from how you rule the North for your brother. But I don’t wish you to have anything you don’t want, especially since it means you’d needs marry some bloody king…and it sure as fucking hells would not be me.”

Sansa smiled gently at him now. “No, it would not; and so I would not have what I have wanted most in my entire life, if I were a queen...and not your lady wife.”

Sandor twitched a smile of his own. “And what is it you wanted most in your entire life…little bird: to shiver in a damned cramped and damp inn on a rainy night with a scarred old dog who hasn’t either riches or high-born blood?”

She turned to him now and looked into his eyes: grey and stormy and challenging. She took his face in her hands and gazed at him adoringly. “I wanted the same thing everyone wants, Sandor: even you…”

He raised his heavy brow questioningly and so she leaned to kiss him sweetly before she gave him her answer.

“To be loved.”

FINIS

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I changed the original title. I wanted a pun on the word 'inn' but didn't succeed.


End file.
